There is a moment from the summer that perhaps other parents will recognise. You have spent the day doing something wonderful together. There has been laughter, excitement, and probably rather more money spent than you intended. You are heading home, thinking, “That was lovely. We have made some proper memories today.” Then a voice comes from the back: “What are we doing tomorrow?”

Tomorrow? Could we just enjoy today for a little longer?

But the more I think about it, the more I recognise something of myself in that question. I can receive something good, be grateful for a moment, and almost immediately turn my attention to what comes next. Will there be enough? How will it work out? What about tomorrow?

That is a much more serious question for the Israelites in Exodus 16. They are in the wilderness, hungry and uncertain. Behind them lies Egypt, with its slavery and suffering. They have witnessed extraordinary deliverance, walked through the sea, and celebrated their freedom. Yet now their stomachs are empty, and yesterday’s song feels a long way away.

Their memories begin to change. Egypt becomes the place where they sat around pots of meat and ate their fill. The cruelty fades into the background, while the food becomes remarkably vivid. Fear can do that to us: make a painful past seem safer than an uncertain future.

We might call this spiritual amnesia. The God who brought them through the sea seems strangely absent from their thinking about the wilderness.

Yet before we judge them, we should remember that hunger is real. Yesterday’s miracle does not stop today’s stomach rumbling. Nor does a history of faith make us immune to anxiety, grief or exhaustion. We can be deeply grateful for what God has done and still struggle with what lies ahead.

What strikes me most in this passage is that God hears them. Even through their complaints, God hears their need. And God responds with food: quail in the evening and bread in the morning. There is something wonderfully practical about that grace. God cares about hungry bodies.

But alongside the food comes an invitation to learn a different way of living. They are to gather what they need for each day, with a special provision for the Sabbath. They must learn to trust that the God who has rescued them will continue to sustain them.

Jesus later gives his disciples a prayer with that same daily rhythm: “Give us this day our daily bread.”

I suspect many of us would prefer a little more certainty than that. Enough for the year would be reassuring. A clear plan, a few guarantees, and something in reserve for every possible difficulty. Yet this prayer invites us to bring God the needs of the day we are actually living.

Perhaps that is where this passage meets us. We may have come into this online space carrying something that makes tomorrow feel overwhelming. A difficult decision, concern for someone we love, or uncertainty about the future of our church. We do not have to pretend those concerns disappear when we pray. We can ask for today’s bread: strength for the conversation, courage to seek help, or enough hope to take the next step.

John Wesley is remembered as saying near the end of his life, “The best of all is, God is with us.” Those words speak into the wilderness too. God’s presence accompanies us even while the way ahead remains uncertain.

And sometimes that presence becomes tangible through another person: someone who listens, shares a meal, offers practical help, or remembers to call. As we pray for our daily bread, we might also ask how we can help answer that prayer for someone else.

[Pause.]

The question from the back seat will come again: “What are we doing tomorrow?” We may not yet know. But remembering yesterday’s faithfulness can help us entrust today to God, and face tomorrow with hope.